Everything as Usual
by WingsOfLace73
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the man who fell to his death from the roof of St Bart's, paying a visit to Molly Hooper is not as unusual as it sounds. This time, however, something is different.


**I finally finished another piece. It's not as perfect as I'd like it to be, but I wanted it finished before series 3. I hope you like it, and please let me know what you think.**

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There was something about dead flowers that Molly Hooper found incredibly sad. Once so fresh and vibrant they were now dry and brittle, their beauty warped and faded like Miss Havisham's wedding dress. That's why every other Saturday morning, on her way to the cemetery, she stopped at the flower stall that occupied a central spot in the local market and picked out the most beautiful bunch on display. She would then spend as long as was needed arranging the flowers at the grave, removing the ones that had begun to show signs that death would soon take them and placing the rest around the headstone whilst ensuring that the cards left by well-wishers were sheltered from the wind and the rain. The sight of the skeletal remains of the flowers surrounding some of the nearby headstones made Molly shudder; they almost acted as signs for the forgotten dead. You could tell a lot about a person from the flowers at their grave.

She usually made these visits on her own. She'd been to the funeral of course, and she'd been accompanied by Mrs Hudson once or twice, but it had upset the elderly landlady too much for it to have become a regular thing. Molly rarely saw anyone else there; she supposed that it took a particular kind of person to spend Saturday mornings in a graveyard. A few faces had become familiar to her: there was an old man with a flat cap who always brought a single white rose with him, a young man with a baby in a pram and a little girl with pink wellies, and a woman with short blonde hair. The blonde was the only one to have spoken to her. It had been a sunny autumn morning, but there was a bite in the air that could only have suggested winter's imminent arrival. Molly had just finished arranging some particularly lovely lilies that she had picked up that morning, but couldn't quite decide whether the red daises that had been left by Greg had finally given up the ghost. As she was pondering this question, and kicking herself for forgetting to bring the rug she usually knelt on as she felt the dew seeping through her jeans, she heard a voice behind her.

"They're very pretty." Molly turned to see the blonde woman standing on the path that ran through the cemetery. She looked back at the orange lilies and nodded in agreement,

"They are a nice colour aren't they?" The bright orange of their petals echoed the burnt colours of the leaves that were scattered on the ground between the headstones.

"You do a good job," the blonde said after a pause, "it always looks beautiful. I imagine he's very grateful." Molly dropped her gaze, trying not to let her eyes fill with the tears that were threatening to break free. When she looked up, the blonde had gone.

x

He sat at her kitchen table. She hadn't seen him in six months; his visits were becoming increasingly sporadic. As usual he looked worryingly thin, his face pale and gaunt. As usual he was eating the food she put before him; she was sure that these visits were the only time he ever ate a decent meal, and she intended that he make the most of it. At first she found it quite odd, seeing him eat, as when they were usually together he had been working and therefore avoiding the distraction of digestion at all costs. That was before. They had a new routine now. She would come back to her flat to find him sitting in her lounge – he would never arrive while she was at home. He would eat and shower, she would patch up any injuries, he would sleep. He never spoke of what he was doing or where he had been, and she didn't ask. She never told him that she missed him, or that she wanted him to stay. He had to do this, whatever it was, and there was no point trying to convince him otherwise. She simply threw her arms around him whenever she came home and found him waiting for her. He never appeared very comfortable with the contact and stayed rigid in her arms. She didn't let this deter her though, as it was as much for her benefit as his. At night, however, when they lay together in the dark he would hold her, close and tight and as though he would never leave. But he always did, and always before sunrise, but not before pressing a light kiss to the top of Molly's head as she slept. She was never actually asleep; she always woke when he got out of the bed, but when he was getting ready to leave after the first visit she knew that she couldn't bear to say goodbye to him again. So, as selfish as she thought it was, she pretended to sleep but when he kissed her she realised that she could never let him know. This was his way of saying thanks and, like the eating and the hug, it had become usual.

Now he sat at her kitchen table, and she knew he was expecting the usual routine. Everything as usual. Except this time it wasn't. She knew; he didn't. She didn't know how to say it – how could she possibly say it? – so she waited for him to ask. She knew he would because he always did.

"How's John?"

Everything as usual, but the familiarity of it didn't make it any less difficult to hear, instead it made it so much worse. As soon as he asked she wished he hadn't. She couldn't say it, she tried, but her mouth was dry and the words died on her tongue. Slowly she pushed back her chair, the wood squeaking and in the silence of the kitchen it was as harsh as nails on a blackboard. From a rarely-used draw, filled with odds and ends, she took a white envelope. It was blank – no name, no address, but she handed it to him.

He asked her what it was – it was a long time since she had seen him make a deduction, even of the simplest kind – and she felt a lump in her throat. The tears filled her eyes, but his expression told her that he wouldn't open it until she answered, so she did in the shortest and most painless way she could.

"It's the note."

His face became unreadable, not shocked, not upset or angry, just blank, as if someone had just drawn a blind down over a window. He sat motionless. Her tears fell freely.

Later she found him sitting on the fire escape, the envelope unopened in his hands. They shook.

"I can't," he said, holding it out to her as she took her seat next to him. He didn't look at her. "Please." His voice cracked. She hesitated, the clouds of her breath visible in the frosty night air. She didn't think she could; after that first time she vowed never to read it again, but he deserved to know, so she took it from him. Carefully she opened the envelope and slid the letter out. It looked just as it had all those months ago and the sight of the familiar scrawl made her heart ache. She took a deep breath of the winter air and, trying her best to keep her voice from shaking, she began to read.

_People think that if you've survived a war, you can survive anything. They're wrong. I can't survive this. I know you were there for me: Molly, Greg, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, but I think I'm out of reach._

_What I'm feeling cannot be put into words, but I'll do my best. You need to know; you deserve an explanation. Before him I was in a dark place without a light, but by his light I learned to live again rather than merely exist. He burned so brightly, and for that I owe him so much. But now I'm back in that dark place and, although I've tried – God knows I've tried – I can't find the light, and I can't find my way out. He was my way out._

_I know this is selfish of me – you've all been through so much – and I'm sorry. I pray you'll forgive me, one day. It'll be quick, if that's any consolation. I'll be on the roof at St. Bart's, where he was. Don't let Mrs Hudson see me. Someone tell Harry that there's nothing she could have done._

_So this is goodbye, don't cry for me will you? I love you all dearly, but I have to go. I can't continue like this, and this is my only way out._

_I'm on my way, Sherlock. I'll see you soon._

_John_

She could barely get his name out, it stuck in her throat and she gave in to the tears. Next to her the tears were streaming silently down his face. He didn't wipe them, he just let them fall. They sat together that night, watching the stars in the cold, black sky until the sun rose, drowning them out and filling the sky with light.

x

He hadn't left. He hadn't touched the toast she'd put in front of him either. He'd broken the routine. Molly watched him from the kitchen where she sipped some coffee that was much too hot; she didn't know what to do. She didn't want him to leave, not in this state, but she didn't think she could face the goodbye after last night. She walked cautiously through the kitchen and sat next to him on the sofa. She wanted to ask if he was okay, but that was stupid because how could he be?

"Sherlock –"

"Don't." He looked at her sharply, as if he had read her mind. Then his gaze fell, and his voice softened. "Where," he paused as though he was having trouble finding the words, "where is he?"

"The cemetery," Molly replied gently, and he nodded. When he still didn't look at her she continued. "There was a funeral, we were all there." He winced and she cursed silently; she sometimes hated herself for saying such stupid things. She placed her hand over his and his eyes flicked to hers. "I'll take you, if you want." He said nothing, but turned his hand under hers, laced their fingers together and squeezed gently. That was all the reply she needed.

He followed her to the cemetery, keeping a few yards behind. It was still rather early and the streets weren't particularly busy, but they couldn't risk being seen together. She didn't like not being able to see him, not knowing for sure that he was there, but she resisted the urge to look back. When she reached the gates of the cemetery she slowed and he came beside her. They walked side by side for a little way before he stopped, his eyes fixed firmly ahead and his jaw clenched. Molly hesitated; she didn't want to push him into anything.

"It's okay if you don't want to Sherlock, if you're not ready." She moved to stand in front of him. "We don't have to do this Sherlock." He shook his head,

"I need to. But I- will you-" he trailed off, and reached out a gloved hand. Molly said nothing and took it. He held it tightly for a moment before she led him forwards. They walked together until they approached the grave. This time it was she who stopped.

"I'll leave you alone." He nodded and stepped forwards. Not wanting him to feel like she was watching him, Molly turned and walked a little way along the cemetery path, looking at the headstones and flowers. She paused in front of the one where the white rose was usually left. There was another name on the headstone now. A little further along there was a grave with a beautiful bunch of various pink and white flowers in a vase in front of the headstone. It was a moment before Molly realised that it was the grave that the blonde woman, who had spoken to her on that autumn morning, usually visited. The flowers partially obscured the name, but she could just about make it out: Eleanor Morton, no Morstan. Eleanor Morstan. She bowed her head in respect for a few moments before turning and slowly walking back up the path.

The ground was crunchy underfoot, the frost still clinging to it, and the wind was starting to sting Molly's cheeks. It had been nearly five months since the funeral, but the ache in her heart she felt when she thought of John hadn't waned, and she didn't think it ever would. Part of her felt guilty and though she had been informed that this was not an uncommon reaction, she knew that she had more reason than most to feel this way. She had promised Sherlock that she would keep an eye on John, and in the beginning she was the one he'd turned to, but as she saw the effect losing his best friend had had on him, she had found it increasingly difficult. There were times when she could hardly stand seeing the pain he was in, and on several occasions she had come incredibly close to letting the truth slip. The only thing that had stopped her was Sherlock's voice reminding her that John's life would be in danger if he ever found out. So instead of taking that risk, she had started distancing herself from her friend. If she'd been there, if she'd kept her promise, she might have realised the state he was in and might have been able to do something before it was too late. For that she would never forgive herself.

She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts as she neared the grave once more. It wouldn't do for her to be upset right now. Taking a few deep breaths she wrapped her coat closer around herself and adjusted her scarf before continuing along the path. As she watched Sherlock standing before the headstone bearing John's name she saw him suddenly sink to his knees. She hurried towards him, unsure of what she was going to do when she reached him. Would he want her there? Sherlock was not one to accept comfort easily and for a moment she hesitated. When she realised that his shoulders were shaking, however, she cast all doubt aside. Taking the last few steps towards him, she placed her hand on his back.

"Sherlock?" she asked quietly, her voice almost lost in the wind. He didn't look up, and for a moment she thought she'd made a mistake. But then he reached for her, grabbing her coat and pulling her to him. Falling to her knees on the frosty grass she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close. He buried his head in her shoulder, sobs racking his thin frame and Molly bit her lip, her vision blurred by her own tears. She felt him tighten his arms around her waist; he clung to her as if she were about to disappear.

"I'm here, Sherlock," she whispered in his ear, running her hand through the curls at the nape of his neck, "I'm here." There was nothing more she could say; she simply held him until his body fell limp. Still she held him, even as the rain began to fall.

x

He told her to go on ahead, that he would follow like before. She left him standing before the grave, saying one final farewell to his best friend. For the first couple of hours she truly expected to hear a knock, or to see that familiar silhouette in the doorway, but then the light outside faded, throwing long shadows through her flat. She should have known, really, and maybe deep down, as she left him in the cemetery, she had known. He lied to her; he wasn't coming back. There would be no goodbye. Everything as usual.


End file.
